


Coldness of the Sun, The

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:05:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Expanded egg beater challenge story.





	Coldness of the Sun, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

The Coldness of the Sun Rosalita

02 Dec 1997  
Revised

The Coldness of the Sun  
Rosalita  


Fox Mulder and Alex Krycek are the property of Chris Carter and Fox Broadcasting. They are borrowed without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story began as an answer to a challenge on the M/K list to write a complete story in 500 words or less. It has been expanded.

* * *

The Coldness of the Sun  
by Rosalita

St. Petersburg, Russia

The sun blazed in the midnight sky as if it were high noon. I'd been away too long; I'd forgotten what the white nights were like. I walked toward my apartment, enjoying the gentle breeze that swept along the street. How different the Russian summer was from the hot, sticky hell of Washington. 

I entered my building and climbed the rickety old stairs. Everything about this place was rickety and old. No more high class, fancy apartments for Alex Krycek. This was my punishment for screwing up in Tunguska, as if having my arm hacked off without benefit of anesthesia wasn't enough. Ah, well, things could be worse. They could have found out that I was plotting to get Mulder out of the gulag before they could harm him more than they already had. If only he hadn't attacked me when he did . . . . Impetuousness, thy name is Mulder. 

His back was to me as I entered the apartment, but I knew immediately it was he. That he shouldn't be here at all occurred to me, and a thousand reasons why he *was* here darted through my head. 

His back was to me, gaze directed toward the blazing sun. Typically Mulder. So wrapped up in a spectacle he'd never before seen that he hadn't heard me enter the room. 

I shut the door quietly and advanced toward him, whispering his name. For a reason I couldn't fathom, I was reluctant to startle him. I don't think I'd ever seen him so still. Mulder was a perpetual motion machine. Even at rest, he was in motion--leg bouncing, fingers tapping or playing with a pen. His inexhaustible energy drove him always to move.

My foot landed on one of the many loose boards, and the floor creaked in warning. Mulder turned, and I saw his face. Every hair on my body stood on end. For a brief moment I saw . . . something. Then it was gone, and he was Mulder again. 

Had he come to kill me at last? Or perhaps to take me back to Washington to stand trial? He still hadn't spoken, so swallowing hard, I asked. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

A confused look crossed the face I saw every night in my dreams. "I'm not sure; I don't even know where *here* is." The voice was reassuringly the same as it had always been. Rough, yet smooth--like a fine whisky. 

"You don't know where you are?" I asked sharply. He shook his head and looked around the small, shabby room as if he'd just noticed it. Perhaps he had.

I studied him. He seemed so calm, so unperturbed by his situation. Just stood there, his back to the window now, gazing at me with hazel eyes that seemed to glow. I shivered. Trick of the light, had to be. Never mind that the sun was behind him, bathing him in a brilliant shroud of whiteness. He looked like an angel. A fallen one, to be sure.

"You're in St. Petersburg," I stammered. "How long have you been here?"

"I don't know," came the unconcerned reply. 

"How did you get here?"

"I don't know."

He didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten here, and it didn't seem to bother him one damn bit. Something was very, very wrong. He'd probably been drugged. No doubt my cigarette-smoking ex-boss was behind this. Kidnaped Mulder and dumped him on me. The old bastard probably hoped we'd kill each other and solve a few of his problems for him. 

I walked over to the small table, pulled out a chair, and motioned Mulder over. He didn't move. Sighing, I snapped, "Mulder, come over here; we need to talk."

"Why?"

Jesus, he was wearing me out. "Because you're acting very strange. I think someone has done something to you." *Great, Alex, that sounded brilliant.* 

Suddenly, he was in front of me. Moved without my seeing him, hearing him. I stepped back involuntarily. He stepped forward. He smelled earthy and rich, with just a hint of musky cologne. Pressure built in my groin, and a wave of desire hit me so hard I gasped. 

"Why are you here, Mulder?" I managed around my fear and arousal. "And don't say you don't know."

He smiled preternaturally. "I need you."

"Need me?" I echoed. "What the hell for?"

"I need you, Alex," he repeated, reaching out with those long fingers to brush my cheek lightly.

"What is this, Mulder? No punches? No accusations? No, 'did you kill my father?'" He stared at me as if I were the only thing in the world worthy of his attention. I shivered, only partially from lust. 

"There's no need for that now, Alex," he said and pressed his lips to mine in a long, stunning kiss. 

His tongue parted my lips and slid slowly into my mouth, a warm presence against my own. Lapping, teasing. We never kissed like this in my dreams. In my dreams, everything about our coupling--including the kisses--was frantic and hard.

I wrapped one arm around his slender waist, pulled him to my body. He allowed it, used it as a cue to release me and lead me to the bed. Along the way, our clothing fell off with astonishing speed. 

If he was surprised by my prosthetic arm, he didn't show it. He merely began to unbuckle the straps that held it on. I put a hand over his, trying to stop him. He would not be deterred, and I surrendered. Once he'd bared the stump, he stared at it, not in horror but with acknowledgment. I didn't have to tell him how it had happened; he knew. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, kissing the shoulder that looked so normal that it doubled the ugliness of what lay beneath it. 

"It's not your fault," I heard myself say. At least not completely, although I liked to blame him. Ultimately though, the fault was mine. I got tangled in this web of my own accord. 

I trembled as his kiss moved down my chest to take up residence at my nipples. He nipped at them sharply, sending a delicious pain in a straight line to my aching groin. His own cock pressed lazily against my hip. I reached for him, but he pulled back shaking his head, not allowing me thank him for the pleasure he was giving me. 

Sliding sinuously to his knees, he licked a fiery path across my flesh to my cock. He suckled it, lathing it thoroughly with his tongue, until I grew dizzy. He gave me a gentle shove, and I fell back onto the bed. He followed me down, blanketing my body with his own.

I growled and rolled him under me. No sounds of protest arose from him. He settled on his belly meekly and spread his legs. This was more like my dreams. Mulder submissive, catering to my every whim, letting me do what I wanted. It was as if he had a front row seat to my fantasies. My arousal was pounding through me; I hunted wildly for lube and condoms. 

Locating the half-full tube, I greased up my fingers and pushed one inside of him. He was tight and hot, the way I imagined he would be. He pushed back against me urgently, wanting me. I stretched him for as long as I could stand it and then gave him the condom. He twisted around to look at me, then tossed the packet away. 

"We don't need that. I want to feel *you*." I started to protest that it wasn't safe, but it died on my lips under the onslaught of the most intense gaze I'd ever been subjected to.

"I need you on your hands and knees," I told him in a shaky voice. He complied, and I used my good hand to guide my cock into his waiting body. I nearly came as I pushed inside. Partly from the tightness and heat of his body, and partly from the knowledge that this was Mulder. To question that he was here and allowing me this ultimate intimacy never occurred to me. 

As soon as I was all the way inside, I wrapped my arm around his waist as an anchor and began to move in and out. I knew I wasn't going to last long, so why fight it? Mulder moaned his encouragement as my thrusts deepened and quickened. My orgasm hit fast and hard, my pleasure increasing when the pulses from Mulder's climax squeezed me like a sweet fist.

The sun was finally going down when we disentangled ourselves and settled into sleep. When I woke the next morning, Mulder was gone. The evidence of our lovemaking told me I hadn't imagined him. 

I dressed quickly and left my apartment to look for him. I didn't like the idea of him wandering around St. Petersburg alone. Although why it disturbed me, I don't know. He was a big boy, capable of taking care of himself. Maybe it was the strange way in which he acted last night that unnerved me. Or the fact that I still didn't know what game the Consortium might be playing, using Mulder and me as pieces. 

The early morning air was cold, as it always was, even in summer. The sun was burning brightly, promising warmth later on. A few steps from my building, a familiar voice called my name. I turned to see the wrinkled face of the older man who was supposed to be a co-worker, but who I knew spied on me. 

"What is it, Yuri? I'm in a bit of a hurry," I asked in Russian.

He nodded. "I won't keep you; I thought you'd want to know. Fox Mulder died last night."

"I've been told this before," I pointed out with a calm I didn't feel

"I assure you that this time, it's quite real. He killed himself. He was identified in his apartment by his partner early this morning."

I could barely speak. "In Washington?" 

"Of course," Yuri spat. He looked at me as if I were senseless. I was. Unable to speak, nearly unable to think. The noise in my head was drowning everything else out. A tuneless repetition--"Mulder is dead. Mulder is dead."

"Thanks, Yuri." I heard myself mumble from thousands of miles away.

He stood watching me for a moment, then walked off and left me standing alone in the cold morning sun.

End

12/2/97


End file.
